Stark
by Slightly Sinister Sinestra
Summary: Strange oneshot. A young Slytherin gets his wand. Ollivander muses. Strange. Have a looksee.


Okay, this _is_ a oneshot. It will not be continued. So enjoy while it lasts.

Disclaimer: I am not JK Rowling, and, barring serious messing with the timeline, never will be. Pity.

Stark

Ollivander had been making wands all his life. He knew beyond doubt that somewhere among his creations there was a match for every wizard that could come to him. Among his creations, or his father's, or his grandfather's. There was a wand for everyone. But never before had he met such a challenging match. The boy that stared silently up at him had said nothing, merely taken what he was given and tried it. Silent, expectant, unsatisfied. No less than fifteen wands lay around him, each a failure. So many. More than any customer had ever required.

Pausing in his search, Ollivander took a moment to simply study the child, who voiced no objection to his stare. He was a strange one, alright. There was no expression on the thin face, no spark of animation in the dark eyes. But they were not dull, not lifeless. There was intelligence there, deep and fathomless, a fierce spirit hidden behind a carefully drawn facade. There was an air of mystery, of distance, about the child. And anger. The kind that was cold and hard and punishing as diamond. The boy was made up of planes and edges and harsh contrasts. Even his colouring reflected that. Black on white on black. Onyx eyes in a face pale as bone, framed by hair the colour and texture of a raven's wing. Darkness and light, cold anger and fierce intelligence, stillness and leashed energy. A study in contrasts.

Oh. Maybe ... Yes. That might be the one. Worth a try.

"A moment, young sir," he muttered as he threaded his way between shelves, heading for the dimmest recesses of his store. The boy said nothing. Ollivander paid no heed, intent now on his search. The wand he sought was old, the oldest here, made by the first Ollivander to enter the trade, all those centuries ago. Like this boy, it had never found a match, not once in all its long life. It was something of a pariah, having gained a reputation among wandmakers as the matchless wand, the wand made for one already dead. The story ran that its maker had created it in memory of his dead mother, and the intensity of his feeling in its creation had poisoned it to all hands but hers. Untrue. All wands were made for the living. This one was no different.

In the darkness of the back cubbyhole, he reached up to pull down the box, holding it reverently, and, cradling it like a child, made his way back to the storefront. It was ridiculous. The thing was not fragile. But some instinct dictated that it be handled with care, so he held it gently as a babe.

The boy was waiting in exactly the same position. He hadn't moved. Ollivander cleared his throat, and those black eyes fixed on him once more.

"We'll try this one, young sir. A strange one, sir. Very old. It's unique, the only one of its kind left." Suprised to find his hands shaking, he pulled the wand out of its nest of tissue and held it out towards the boy. "Ebony and unicorn hair, sixteen inches. An ivory inlay at the base, unique nowadays. A combination that has never been repeated. Meant for powerful work, but with quite a touch of delicacy. Have a try."

For a moment, as the boy reached out to take hold, Ollivander felt a bizarre foreboding, a sense that this pairing of wand and wizard would bring strange things to pass in this world, a future as dark and mysterious as its past. Then the moment passed, and slender fingers grasped the wand.

The boy took it in one pale hand, rolling it gently in long, dextrous fingers. Ollivander watched the slim dark wand play amid the slender white fingers, struck by the starkness of the image. Black and white. Darkness and light. The boy firmed his grip and gestured fluidly with the wand. A stream of silver ribbons danced in the air in its wake, a sharp, pealing note breaking the quiet. It sounded like a glass being struck. The boy's eyes lit up for a second, a simple, pure joy in them. The wand responded still more strongly, weaving patterns of light and ribbon in the dust-strewn air. Then, calmly, the boy let it fall to his side, and the music halted.

"Thank you," Severus said, his abrupt speech making Ollivander jump slightly. Bowing gracefully, the boy withdrew some money, the exact amount, though the wandmaker hadn't said, laid it on the counter, and departed.

Ollivander stared after him. One to watch, he thought, but possibly from a safe distance. Strength hidden in fragility. Purity hidden in darkness. Sorrow hidden in calm. Not what he appeared. There could be no face values with this one. No compromise. Like the wand. Purity and sacrifice, sheathed in inflexible darkness.

Black and white.

Stark.

Well? Rather odd musings, I thought. Persistent ones, though. Contrasts. Severus always struck me as a man of contrasts. Anyway. What do ye think? R&R?


End file.
